


Once a Century

by hardlyfatal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman like this, a man has the luck to meet but once in a lifetime. A woman like this comes round but once in a generation, and he means to have her. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once a Century

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I am a fool, an exhausted fool. I spent 3 hours last night, until 2am, writing this fanfiction. I literally just told you all that I wasn't going to write fanfiction anymore. But then Brianne and Tormund happened, and life will never be the same for me.
> 
> Have I mentioned I've never seen any of the damned thing? Because I haven't. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I cannot let this pairing go. If I’ve done something wrong/uncanonical please correct me and I’ll fix it. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Inspired by the song “Beneath Your Beautiful” because if Tormund had a theme song, this would be it. (lyrics at the end)

It had been a bloody misery, this ride from Castle Black to Riverrun, the entire length of it spent strategizing and planning. They rode hard, stopping only for the most urgent needs to piss. They fell exhausted into their bedrolls at night, long after it was safe to keep traveling, just to be awake at the arse-crack of dawn the next morning.

Tormund had done his level best to maneuver himself next to Brienne, with a cheering amount of success, except he didn’t seem to be making any progress with her.

Aye, she was at least looking him in the face when they had cause to speak to each other— and Tormund was working hard to make that happen often— but there was nothing in her glorious eyes but interest in the subject matter to hand. He could have been Edd, or that a squire of hers, or one of the damned horses, for all the notice she took of him.

She’d taken more notice in the horses, in truth.

Tormund knew he wasn’t a dashing sort, nor pretty like Snow. And he wasn’t a pretty fighter like Brienne with her lightness and grace. But he was strong, and bloody effective, if he did say so himself. And he was an honest man, a hardworking man. He had honor. She could do worse.

He shot a gimlet eye over their companions. _Could do much worse_ , he thought, raking a scathing glance over the rest of the group.

How had any of these soft-pricked fools let Brienne go so long? How had they treated her either as one of the fellows— _hah, with those legs?_ — or, even more bafflingly, with puzzlement or disdain, would remain a mystery for the ages.

Tormund just thanked every god he could name that none had pursued her, because she was free for him to claim. That _meant_ something to him, made him think of things the Southerners liked to put merit in, like fate and destiny and providence. Since he was a man of chaos— he allowed it to steer him, and created a fair bit of it as well— this was a shift of epic proportions for him.

But massive changes had become commonplace the day Brienne had ridden into the castle yard, which Tormund would forever use as the defining moment of his life. There was the time before Brienne, and then there was the time after her.

Had he thought, before, that he’d had purpose? That he’d understood admiration? Reverence? Lust? Impossible. He had learned the meaning of those words in that thunderstruck moment he’d clapped eyes upon her.

Tormund heaved a sigh— probably the hundredth such that day— because, well, his arse was sore from being a-saddle for so many hours in a row, but also because the weak light had turned Brienne’s pale hair to silver-gilt. This late in the day, the tidy combing she’d given it that morning was a shambles, and it now tumbled around that strong, elegant face and her neat little ears. He wondered, if he asked very nicely, if she would ever consider growing it longer, because he knew there’d be no prettier sight than Brienne laying back, hair spilling around her, as he moved to cover her.

He gave his head a shake to get his unruly thoughts under control. Brienne flicked her eyes to the left, to him, and he held his breath as he always did whenever her attention was focused on him. He gave a little cough, a hint (or perhaps a warning) that he intended to speak to her. She turned her head more fully toward him, and now he could see the blue of her eyes, the way the sun sparked off them, gold and bright.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something to her, anything, but all the words of adoration jumbled together in his thick head and then fell out in a way as to make her think him simple or crazed.

And, yes, he _was_ simple and crazed, had been since she’d arrived at the castle. This fever held him in a grip of iron.

“Your arse,” he blurted, then swore viciously at himself. He had meant to say something about how good it would be to camp for the night, to not be astride for at least a few snatched hours of sleep. But his tiny brain, rattling around in the near-empty cavern of a skull he wore atop his neck, scrambled the notions of ‘riding too long’ with ‘sore arse’ and the lovingly-formed opinions he’d come to of her backside after much thoughtful consideration.

And out of his stupid, stupid mouth came ‘your arse’.

Oh, if the Free Folk hadn’t needed him, he’d be impaling himself on yon spear, see if if he wouldn’t have.

He was unsurprised when, affronted, Brienne stiffened and pointedly turned away.

Tormund heaved another sigh, focused his dull gaze on the plodding motion of his mount’s head, and resigned himself to another few hours of sullen silence until they stopped their journey for the day.

 

* * *

 

By the time they were sliding off their horses, drooping with fatigue, Tormund had recovered from his chagrin and formed a plan. Maybe the reason she paid his feeble attempts at wooing no heed was because, yes, they were delivered in a way guaranteed to convince anyone his brains had gone begging.

But he’d thought hard about the type of men Brienne was used to, and compared himself to them, one by one. He compared himself to Jon Snow, and while he’d never acquired that odd kick in his gallop, he was capable of seeing the lad was handsome, and how a man’s looks could pull the ladies.

Brienne was used to men in garb of cloth and leather, not furs over furs over furs. And she was accustomed to trimmed hair and neat-shorn beards. He gave himself a discreet sniff; aye, it was also likely she had less appreciation for a man’s musk as did the women north of the wall.

So if she were more comfortable with men who spent time on their bits and bobs, that was what he’d give her.

But he was going to need some help.

 

* * *

 

After the exhausted group had downed a listless meal of travel rations and staggered to their blankets around the fire, Tormund noticed Brienne’s little squire leaving the clearing. Doubtless the boy just wanted one last piss before he slept, but Tormund saw it as fate making an opportunity present itself, and followed.

When he reached Podrick, the boy was indeed relieving himself against a tree. Tormund, feeling companionable, tugged open his trews and loosed a stream of his own.

“So,” he began.

Pod glanced over at him. It was a clear night, and moonlight filtered through the naked branches overhead to reflect off the suspicion in the boy’s eyes.

“Yes?” he said, his voice utterly neutral.

“I want you to help me.”

“…with?” The suspicion did not lessen, but was joined by confusion. Podrick hastily rearranged his clothing and stood patiently, waiting for an explanation.

Tormund was grateful for the dim lighting, so as to better hide the flaming blush racing over his face. Hopefully. He tucked away his own pump handle and forced himself to continue.

“I want you to help me with…” he waved his hands around, trying to indicate his own body.

“Training?” tried Podrick.

“No. With…” Overcome with frustration, Tormund gesticulated more wildly. “With this. All of this.”

Now the boy was openly staring at him. “I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

Tormund briefly contemplated tearing out the hair he wanted Pod to improve.

“I want you to help me… look better. To help me cut my hair and trim my beard and find clothes such as you Southerners wear.” There was one more thing, what was it… “Ah, yes. And soap. I need some soap.”

Podrick’s mouth dropped open. Just a little bit, but it was enough to show that the boy thought him demented. Tormund certainly _felt_ demented.

“But… why?”

Tormund snorted. Perhaps the boy was thick; could he not tell how Tormund had been pursuing the fair Brienne? What other need had a wildling for hair-cutting and cloth garments if not wooing?

“I want to look my best.”

“For what?” Pod’s skepticism were nearly a tangible thing, wobbling in chill air between them. “We’ve another three days, at least, until Riverrun.”

Now it was Tormund’s turn to stare at the boy as if he’d lost his mind. “For Brienne, of course.”

“ _Lady_ Brienne,” Podrick corrected automatically, almost absently, as his eyes flew wide in comprehension.

“Yes,” Tormund agreed, fervently. “She is a lady. Lady Brienne.” And he could not hold in another sigh, sickening himself while he did it. Oh, he was in a sorry state. “Will you help me?”

Pod gazed at him a long moment, so long that Tormund bounced a little on his toes, feeling fidgety. Finally, just as he was about to start talking again, doubtless to say something else entirely witless, the boy spoke.

“Why are you pursuing her?”

Tormund smirked at him. “Obvious as the nose on your face, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” countered Podrick. “She thinks you’re mocking her.”

Tormund blinked, then blinked again. What had he done to give anyone the idea he was anything but genuinely insane for her?

“ _Mocking_ her? I want to _marry_ her!”

Now it was Pod’s turn to blink a few times. Tormund opened his mouth to speak, but he had all these words, they were knotted up and spilling out and he couldn’t keep them back.

“How could anyone mock her? _Her?_ There’s not a thing of her a person could fault, not down to a hair on her head.” He paused, considering. “Well, perhaps I could fault how hard she is to me. Another man might get to feeling down, the way she turns away. But not me.”

He bent at the knee a little, ensuring he was eye-level with the smaller man. “Not me,” he repeated, slowly, wanting Podrick to fully understand him. “I’m going to wait for that woman, I am. Long as it takes, I’m going to wait.”

After a long, long silence— during which Tormund had to clench his fists to keep from fidgeting— Pod gave a decisive nod and said, “Good.”

Tormund nodded back. “Good.”

They stood there, nodding at each other, for far too long. Around them, the wind murmured through the trees. In the distance, Tormund could hear the muffled sounds of their fellows settling in for the night. He squinched his eyes shut and blew out a breath.

“I am not usually a fool,” he muttered. “I haven’t been the same since she rode in.”

“She has a way of making a man doubt himself,” Podrick agreed cautiously.

“It’s those eyes. They’re piercing, those eyes of hers, like to stab a man through,” Tormund replied happily. “Never seen nothing like those eyes.” Another gusty sigh of yearning shuddered in his chest.

“Er, yes.” Pod was back to looking baffled. Tormund decided to take pity on him, him being still a boy and likely without much knowledge of the ways of the world.

“A woman like that… a woman like that, Podrick, a man has the luck to meet but once in a lifetime.” He gave his tenth nod of the night to punctuate his surety of that. “A woman like that comes round but once in a _generation_ , and I mean to have her.”

“Um.”

“Can you imagine the sons and daughters she’ll give me? Ah, they’ll be strong enough to shake the pillars of the world, they will.”

“Do you think you’re up to the challenge of being the equal of such a person?” Pod asked, his eyes worried. “Because she’ll be a challenge the likes of which you’ve never tried before.”

“I have to be,” Tormund replied, very serious. “I _have_ to be. I can’t let her get away because I weren’t enough for her. So if I have to change for her— so she’ll take me seriously, so she’ll have me— I’ll do it.”

He lifted and dropped his shoulders, beat his arms against his chest to get his blood flowing again. They’d been standing here, by their puddles of piss, for a long while and he was ready to snatch a few hours of sleep.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I will. In the morning. Wake earlier than the rest, and meet me back here. I’ll bring shears and see if I can’t scrounge up a tunic large enough for you.”

Tormund shot him a blinding smile. “I’ll dance at your wedding, see if I won’t.” It was a high honor among the Free Folk, and with Tormund himself, since he wasn’t fond of dancing none. But if this boy could help him get Brienne, he’d dance at his wedding and no mistake. For hours. Naked, if necessary. Whatever it took.

 

* * *

 

The ambush, a day later, came out of nowhere.

Tormund was still getting used to feeling the air on his nape and throat, and instead of the silky caress of fur on his skin, there was a tunic, scratchy but didn’t the green wool bring out the color of his eyes?

He had polished up one of the soldier’s shields and admired his new face, quite pleased with the result of his pre-dawn primping session with Podrick. The boy had been merciless with the shears, and the amount of hair that had fallen to the muddy snow at their feet had made him afraid he’d find himself bald as an egg, but no.

He’d scrubbed himself raw with the soap and handfuls of snow, until he was as pink as a piglet all over, but there was no trace of pong about him when he donned the clean tunic.

 _Let Brienne reject him now,_ he thought, triumphant, and swung his fur cloak over his shoulders. He wanted to be handsome for fair Brienne, but he also didn’t want to freeze his bollocks off before he had a chance to use them in her service.

When she’d passed him on her way to the horses, she’d shot him a look he was still working on deciphering: the hostility he’d weathered from her for a week had slid into a wary sort of bemusement, like she was trying to figure him out. That didn’t bother him none, as he knew it would take him the rest of his life to figure her out. Fair was fair.

So caught up in his thoughts— he rode behind her, today, the better to admire the set of her shoulders and the gentle sway of her hips in rhythm with her horse’s gait— that he almost lost the crucial moment he needed to hear the thrum of a bow loosing its arrow. Twisting wildly in his saddle, he slashed out with his frantically-unsheathed sword and managed to bat the arrow away in time.

“Ambush!” he shouted, and everyone scrambled in reaction, zigzagging for cover so the archers could not make their marks. Miraculously, they all made it behind either an outcropping of rock or a fall of dead trees without injury. Rough slaps to the horses’ hindquarters sent them running off to safety. Hidden as they were, their opponents now would have no choice but to abandon their bows and resort to close combat.

Tormund insinuated himself by Brienne, determined to stay with her throughout. He might go down, but it would be by her side. When she slid a glance his way, he couldn’t muster up his usual maniacal grin, and just let himself be lost in her eyes for a long, aching moment. Could she read his face? Could she see what was written there?

No way to know, because their attackers were coming for them. After Snow, Brienne was the second out there, with a last look to ensure Lady Sansa was safe behind her boulder, and Tormund was third, right on her flank.

He had trouble paying attention to his own fights, because this was the first time he’d been able to watch Brienne in a real battle— not sparring, not training. She was smooth, efficient. Deadly. Economical of motion, making each move count. She’d gut one man, then turn the pulling-out of Oathkeeper into the decapitation of another on the backswing. She kept her breathing steady, her pace even, and wasn’t shy about using her shoulders and feet do the talking when her sword was tongue-tied.

 _Beauty in motion,_ Tormund thought, besotted, and idly bisected his own opponent as punishment for blocking his view of Brienne as she disarmed another foe.

 _Literally dis-armed him,_ he continued to himself, as she’d removed both the man’s arms. He couldn’t have been more proud if he’d done it himself.

“Ooof.”

The sound was forced out of him from the impact of a blunt object across his back. He staggered and spun around to find a rather enormous fellow grinning at him with blackened, rotting teeth. The spiked ball of the flail that had just connected with Tormund swung back around, this time intent on puncturing his face instead of just his shoulder.

Tormund scowled. The blood trickling down his back didn’t bother him none, it always washed out, but he’d just gotten this tunic, and he wasn’t pleased to have a hole in it already. He raised his arm, intent on killing the big bastard, but found he was having trouble breathing. The air was whistling funny in his chest, and then little silver dots were doing a sprightly jig in his field of vision as he keeled over.

 _Got my lung,_ he thought just before he hit the ground. _Just need a second to catch my breath._

But his breath wasn’t catching, and the big bastard was swinging the mace at him again. Tormund looked around, searching frantically for Brienne. If this were it, he wanted the sight of her in his eyes at the last.

And then there she was. Not a few feet away, but just suddenly standing over him, those legs of hers rising over him like they had in that filthy dream he’d had… was it three days ago? Four?

Brienne shot out one hand, snatching the shaft of the flail. She used its wielder’s momentum to wrench it from his grasp, flinging it away before sending Oathkeeper hilt-deep into the very center of his massive chest. Impassive, she watched as he dropped to his knees before toppling over onto his dead face.

No greater thing had Tormund ever seen. Brienne had saved him. _Brienne_ had saved _him_. His heart was full, brimming to the top and over.

She turned, heedless of the blood dripping from her sword, and stared down at him with narrow blue eyes.

“Go join Lady Sansa,” she told him in that low, commanding voice that never failed to give him chills. “She’ll need your protection.”

Ah, she was hoping to spare his pride, when it was clear that Lady Sansa would be doing any protecting, if the way the silver dots were thickening in his vision were any sign. So Tormund just lay there and stared up at Brienne. _She had saved him._

Brienne huffed and strong-armed him to his feet, slinging his arm over her shoulder and marching him over to her lady, absently cutting down anyone stupid enough to think her vulnerable with a half-dead wildling hanging off her.

Lady Sansa’s eyes flew wide when Tormund was deposited by her.

“Punctured lung, I’d reckon,” Brienne told her, succinct as ever.

“I’ve a hole in my tunic now,” said Tormund mournfully. “I’m sorry.”

Brienne just stared at him, perplexed, before forcing a reply through stiff lips. “Wait here.”

“Always,” was his immediate reply.

She had turned back to the battlefield, but paused, facing back just enough to slide a glance at him sideways, as if afraid to look at him full-on. There was a set to her jaw that was almost shy, was definitely guarded. “As long as it takes?”

That sounded familiar. She had heard him and Podrick, the night before? Tormund’s heart seized in his chest. He knew what she was asking now. He wondered how possible it would be to find all the men who’d made her more likely to doubt than believe a man could love her, because he’d like to string them from a tree by their intestines.

Beside him, Lady Sansa stood as motionless as the boulder they hid behind, but her eyes were as big as two targes.

“And beyond, if you ask it,” he wheezed, wishing it sounded manlier, but it was hard to be manly with a collapsed lung. He was having a moment with his lady, here, and him gasping like a consumptive.

She nodded, still only barely looking at him, and then leapt back into the fray.

Tormund was able to once more feast his eyes while she battled. Lady Sansa didn’t say a word to him about anything she had witnessed, but then there was little to say. It had been clear as day what had just happened. He felt like singing. And possibly even dancing.

…perhaps not dancing.

When it was all over, they had lost two men. Their attackers had been slaughtered. And Brienne was striding back to him, her face impassive but her eyes blazing with blue fire.

“That was unpardonably careless,” she said. Her voice was frigid. “You—

“I got a haircut,” he informed her.

Silence. She tried again. “You—”

“ _And_ I trimmed my beard,” he continued. “Do you find me handsome now?”

More silence. Then, “If I don’t?”

“Then I’ll change again, to whatever you do find handsome.” He took a moment to steady himself. He didn’t think his breathlessness, this time, was due to the hole in his lung. Not with her so near, not with her talking directly to him. Not when she knew his intentions. “D’you think you could tell me what that is? In the interest of saving time, you ken. I don’t want to wait any longer than I must, to have you.”

Brienne’s narrow gaze was not promising. Tormund resigned himself to wracking his brains to figure out what else might appeal to her, but then she opened her mouth to speak.

It didn’t work the first time; perhaps her throat was dry. It took her a few aborted tries before she managed to get out, “As you are now… it’s fine.”

Tormund blinked. Before he could respond— or think of anything to say in response, or even begin to think at all— Brienne turned on her heel and strode away, her broad shoulders unbowed and her hand on the the grip of Oathkeeper.

Tormund lay back on the ground and closed his eyes, a happy man. “Once a century,” he murmured to Lady Sansa, or anyone else who happened to be around, or no one at all. “A woman like that comes round once a _century_.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Beneath Your Beautiful”
> 
> You tell all the boys "No"  
> Makes you feel good, yeah.  
> I know you're out of my league  
> But that won't scare me away, oh, no
> 
> You've carried on so long,  
> You couldn't stop if you tried it.  
> You've built your wall so high  
> That no one could climb it,  
> But I'm gonna try.
> 
> I'm gonna climb on top your ivory tower  
> I'll hold your hand and then we'll jump right out  
> We'll be falling, falling but that's OK  
> 'Cause I'll be right here
> 
> I just wanna know  
> Would you let me see beneath your beautiful?  
> Would you let me see beneath your perfect?  
> Take it off now, girl, take it off now, girl  
> 'Cause I wanna see inside
> 
> (Labrinth, Emeli Sandé)


End file.
